


we are such stuff as dreams are made on

by driedvoices



Category: Kairos (O'Keefe) Series - Madeleine L'Engle
Genre: F/M, Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-13
Updated: 2012-05-13
Packaged: 2017-11-05 06:43:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/403519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/driedvoices/pseuds/driedvoices
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We live in an infinitely troubled universe, Meg.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we are such stuff as dreams are made on

The air is cold; it bites at Meg's eyes like the sharpest teeth, bringing wetness with every gust. She wipes it away almost angrily, and trudges on, her head lowered. She doesn't know how long he's been outside, because she's only just arrived. It's very obvious that he knew she was coming, though, as he is on the edge of the star-watching rock, making room for two. She strokes his shoulder as she sits down, but he doesn't turn to look at her.

"Is—Charles, is something wrong?"

He smiles serenely, knowingly, but he still does not look her in the eye. "Of course there's something _wrong_. We live in an infinitely troubled universe, Meg."

She scowls, though half-heartedly. "You know what I _meant_ , you—" Her sentence hangs unfinished in the air, drifting alongside the rapidly swirling leaves. "You're going to catch cold out here, you know," she says disapprovingly to the chill-bumps on his arms, "I'm surprised Mother let you out of the house." Her fingers trail down his neck, leaving a ghost of a trace of a touch.

"Nothing's terribly wrong; at least, nothing that wasn't wrong yesterday." Charles says matter-of-factly, "Incidentally, Mother didn't say a word to me when I walked out, nor did I miss her nagging."

"Oh, hush," Meg says fondly, "We brought you that anorak for a reason, you know."

"The usual reason one buys an anorak, or do you have some hidden motive you're keeping from me?"

"Ha," Meg says dryly, "But if you're ill in the morning—"

"I won't be," he says simply, and she believes him. Her head falls easily into the crook of his neck, and she knows the exact rhythm of his heartbeat without even listening. "Why were you even out here?" she murmurs sleepily, and blinks to regain focus.

"Listening to the wind." His voice is faint, barely audible, and Meg can feel his disappointment. "What does it say?" she asks, looking up at him eagerly, as though she were the child. He turns away from her.

"Nothing," he says, "Nothing like it used to."

"You're lying," she says, without missing a beat. "You should know better, especially with me. You could never lie to me."

"I _can_ ," he corrects her; "I just know you'd never believe me."

"Of course you do," she smiles, and laughs, the familiar tinkling sound of bells and sore throats rings out into the empty air. "You know almost everything about me, don't you." It is not a question. "You don't even have to try. "

"Not almost," he says, and: "No one else does, you know. Not the way I do."

"Calvin," she muses, "and maybe Fath—"

"No one else," he says sharply, "Where is Calvin, anyway?"

"London, and Moscow on Tuesday. Why?" She cocks her head at him, and admires the sharp planes of his face, the way his hair has darkened over the years. His eyes are brilliant blue, like their father's, but they're not the same jovial shape; her brother's young, pale skin is etched with lines of worry planted there in childhood.

"He should spend more time at home with you," he mutters, "and the baby."

"I suppose so." She shrugs. "It's all for us in the long run, anyhow."

"Is it?" Charles whispers, and he buries his head in his hands. "I can't hear anything anymore. You're just barely coming through. Did I—" his eyes fall upon her face, darting from the curve of her mouth to the slant of her eyes and she can't help but revel in it, just for a moment, "I think I did something wrong. The Old Music doesn't play for me anymore."

Meg sighs, and rubs his shoulder. He is tired, and he is growing weak. He doesn't need to tell her this. "Lie down," she whispers in his ear. He obliges her, drawing his hands around his face. "Maybe it's quiet because there is peace," she says softly, "You've brought peace, if just a moment's worth." She presses a soft kiss to his forehead. "Rest," she says, and lays her coats over his still form. She walks back to the house, rubbing her arms, and knows that he'll be inside in less than ten minutes, and it would probably be best to make enough cocoa for two.


End file.
